


The Devil Plays In These Hills (Snippet)

by Lluviadelsol



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-08
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-07-22 08:50:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7428196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lluviadelsol/pseuds/Lluviadelsol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snippet from the larger work, still under construction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Devil Plays In These Hills (Snippet)

Greg fumbled with his keys and juggled his file folders with limited success. Swearing softly, he jiggled the key in Nick’s lock until it slid home, then shoved the door open with his shoulder. Nails clattered on the wood floor down the dark hallway and Greg had the presence of mind to shut the door and flip the lights just as Sam came barreling into view.

“Hey Sammy-boy,” Greg crooned, stooping to scratch the dogs ears with his free hands. Sam practically wiggled out of his skin, tail flying in circles like he was about to take off, and licked Greg’s ears. 

“Thanks,” said Greg, wiping a hand over his face. “Yeah, really, thank you for that. Just what I needed. Oh yes, another one? Geez, you’d think Nick didn’t love you or something.” 

Trying to avoid getting his face washed again, Greg straightened up and lead the way down the hallway, turning on lights as he went. Sam followed him obediently, tongue lolling out of the side of his head in a doggy grin. 

The files were left in an unceremonious heap on the counter, his jacket was tossed over the back of a chair and his shoes shoved under the table top. Greg opened the fridge and chewed on his lip as he surveyed the selection. 

“What do you think goes best with beer, Sam? Nick’s left over salmon or something that looks like chicken Caesar salad?” And wasn’t that indicative of Nick’s health food obsession? As far as Greg could see, his only vices were expensive beer and buttered popcorn.

At the mention of food, Sam’s ears pricked forward. Greg laughed. “Hey, I know Nick fed you before he went on watch. You can’t fool me, criminal mastermind.”

Nabbing the salad with one hand and a beer with another, Greg turned and nudged the fridge closed with his foot before heading into the living room. Of course, as soon as he sat down, Sam decided he wanted to be comfortable as well. The beer nearly went flying when Greg suddenly found himself with a lab full of fuzzy, drooling police dog.

After some negotiation, wherein Sam learned that Greg wasn’t sharing his dinner no matter how pitiful he looked, they both were settled enough for Greg to find the remote and change the channel to some history channel program about the 1960 moon landing. 

Greg’s phone buzzed beside him, Sara unimpressed face lighting up the screen. 

Gene back: 61 match. Relative?

Greg frowned and tapped the screen. So the Maria’s murderer shared at least 61% same genetics. Sibling maybe? 

He considered the probability of relatedness and the potential suspects while nursing his beer, the TV droning in the background accompanied by grainy, black and white footage. Sam, predictably, fell asleep curled up next to Greg’s thigh and began to snore.

The clock on Greg’s watch tipped over to midnight and Greg considered following Sam’s example when a flash a movement at the corner of his eye caught his attention. He turned his head, saw only the sliding glass back door and, beyond it, Nick’s shadowy backyard. 

He settled back against the couch, unease stealing into his mind like an unwanted visitor. Paranoia is contagious, he reminded himself. He had Sam, Nick should be home any minute. There was no reason to be afraid. 

Except, that wasn't true. Something moved again and, on instinct, he looked before he could stop himself. Only this time, he saw it.


End file.
